Night Rain
Maeve
Night Rain
Friends,
an ashy word,
so many people at once.
Bought instead of earned,
trust is a Valkyrie,
doomed black wings closing,
feathers settling.
The mold is meant to be broken,
making perfect, forced individuality.
No one struggles.
After all, this is America, land of the free.
The individual
who retains character
waits and peers out,
the inside that is outside.
Her pain
is the smoke-covered moon
scarred by fingering trees below.
Still, ships sail away into the sunset.
Winds blow their strains into nothing.
She paddles fiercely, struggling in her tiny boat
to keep up.
The black hole of a fallen star
bursts,
pushing, firm and encouraging,
pulling hard and hopelessly,
relentless waves and tides.
She is small
around the vulture’s scolding beak,
defiance rising, pieces shattered in a world.
Fireflies and dragons
roar indignantly,
blinding glow in common.
She runs her hand along the scaly glove,
watching and protecting them in turn,
for she would rather look just once
and not see anything again,
than never look at all.
She wishes and grasps
at the anything-talk
of knowing someone well,
a path away.
A heron, great and blue,
passes over starlit waters
marred by her footsteps,
able to feel the rain,
and not afraid
to get wet.